Frame Shift
by who is sabrina
Summary: Every chapter of the Harry Potter series, from a different pair of eyes. A collection of one-shots that tell Harry's story from a perspective other than his own. Disclaimer: I do not own HP. [Ch 3: The Letters from No One. The owner of the Railview Hotel receives a hundred letters at the front desk, all addressed to a Mr. H. Potter.]
1. PS SS: The Boy Who Lived

Minerva McGonagall stands between Dumbledore and Hagrid, crumpled lace handkerchief in her hands. The midnight sky is alive with the twinkling of the stars now visible in the absence of Privet Drive's street lamps. But none of them are paying any mind to the sky; all three pairs of eyes are fixed on the bundle of blankets that is little Harry Potter.

Minerva can just make out the edge of the envelope that sticks out from Harry's blankets, but from this distance, it's impossible to see the details of the baby's tiny features. But Minerva can remember the details - would always remember the details. The relaxed, content expression that he wore in his sleep. The bright red lightning-shaped cut on his forehead. And, of course, the tiny little shock of jet black hair that exactly matches the shade of his father's.

James. Lily. They burst into her mind's eye in full color - hysterical laughter, flaming red hair, and mischievous grins. They are so full of life that she finds it hard to connect them with the concept of death. And yet, Dumbledore had confirmed the horrible rumors she had refused to believe; Lily and James, dead. Minerva will never again beam with pride at Lily's beautiful wandwork, nor stifle a grin in the face of one of James' jokes. The idea unsettles her.

She blinks back tears, and is met with the sight of Harry on the Dursleys' doorstep. Can she really do this? Leave him here like this, in the dubious care of two unpleasant Muggles? A tightness seizes her around the chest as she imagines what Harry could have had. Flights on a toy broom. Snuggles with his loving mother, little fingers pulling at scarlet strands of hair. Nights with his grinning father, eyes alight with wonder at conjured sparks and lights. But none of that is possible now; Minerva knows it, and it breaks her heart. She hopes he will be happy here on Privet Drive, but she can't imagine what life with the Dursleys will be like, and to be honest, she doesn't want to.

"Well," Dumbledore says into the silence. "That's that." Minerva blinks furiously in an effort to compose herself, and beside her, Hagrid's shoulders finally stop their incessant shaking. The gamekeeper sighs heavily and turns away from the bundle on the doorstep; Minerva can see the tear tracks on his face reflected in the starlight. "We've no business staying here," Dumbledore continues flatly. "We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," Hagrid manages, but it sounds like partying is the last thing on his mind. Minerva finds herself disgusted at the idea of a celebration. "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back," Hagrid informs them quietly. "G'night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir." And, swiping his sleeve over his eyes, he gets back on the bike and roars away.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall." Dumbledore nods in farewell. Minerva says nothing, but blows her nose into her handkerchief and watches him walk back down the street. They are all leaving, and she must leave too. But something indeterminate holds her back, and she glances, once again, at Harry Potter. _It's the best place for him,_ Dumbledore had told her firmly. She has doubts. But she also has hope.

She looks away from the baby's still form, and draws her wand from her cloak pocket. She will see him again. The untidy black hair. The lightning scar. But next time - when she will finally spot him in the jumbled crowd of nervous first years - perhaps, she hopes, he will be smiling.


	2. PS SS: The Vanishing Glass

Piers Polkiss sits in the back of Mr. Dursley's car, heart pounding wildly, barely listening to his best friend's shouted story.

"-tried to _bite my leg off_!" Dudley screams, grinning widely and looking as if this was his best birthday yet. His mother, on the other hand, moans quietly and sags further into the passenger seat.

"Oh, yeah?" Piers shouts, just as amped as Dudley. "Did you see how it tried to squeeze me to death?!"

"Its gigantic fangs-"

"Just kept squeezing-"

"-swallow me whole!"

"-could've crushed me like a tin can!"

Piers and Dudley are happily shouting over each other, and Piers feels ready to burst into ecstatic laughter, or to crow with happiness like Peter Pan.

"Piers," Mrs. Dursley says tremulously into the momentary silence, "please don't tell your mother that that snake tried to strangle you." She is fidgeting with her dress, looking worried and motherly, and Piers resists the urge to roll his eyes. Tell his mother? This is a story he will tell his _grandkids_ , he knows. He grins over at Dudley, who is looking equally elated about their horrifying experience. Piers can't wait to tell the rest of the gang. Drumming his hands on his lap restlessly, he looks out the window at the passing cars, and tries to remember exactly how it happened…

 **…**

 _Piers is leaning his head on his hand, elbow propped casually on the edge of a venomous snake's enclosure. But said snake isn't looking very venomous, and in fact looks as disappointingly lethargic as the rest of the immobile reptiles. Dudley and his parents have already moved a couple of displays down, but Piers watches the brightly-patterned snake a little longer, hoping for something, anything. But the snake does not even twitch, and eventually, Piers sighs and turns away, looking off into the darkness of the reptile house. His wandering gaze lands on Harry, Dudley's strange, scrawny cousin, and it is that precise moment when Piers hears it._

 _A faint murmur, barely audible, words indecipherable. It's Harry's voice, low and quiet, polite and conversational. Curious, Piers takes several silent steps nearer to Harry, who is bent close to the glass of an enclosure. As Piers moves closer, the snake comes into his view as well. It is a boa constrictor, and it is no longer sleeping. Piers freezes, his heart in his throat, his own pulse thrumming loudly in his ears. With a thrill, Piers watches the snake, its head raised to Harry's height, its reptilian eyes fixed on Harry as if listening to the boy. And then, to Piers' amazement, the snake jabs its tail at the informational plaque next to its enclosure._

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

Bred in captivity.

 _Harry nods at the snake in sympathetic understanding, and then responds; the sound is, impossibly, even more frightening than the snake's piercing stare. It's a harsh, abrasive whisper, hissing rather than words, and a sudden chill brings goosebumps across Piers' forearms. The sound is distinctly inhuman, unnatural, wrong._ Freak _, Piers thinks savagely. But then - the snake_ shakes its head _. There is no denying it; the Brazilian boa constrictor is having a full-on conversation with Dudley's cousin. Piers' tongue suddenly unsticks, and he tears his gaze away from the snake to look for Dudley and his parents, who are still a couple of enclosures away._

 _"DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY!" he yells at the top of his voice. His hysterical shouts echo through the quiet stone hallway. "COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T_ BELIEVE _WHAT IT'S DOING!" Dudley comes running immediately, and he and Piers rush over to the boa constrictor._

 _"Out of the way, you," Dudley snaps at Harry. He punches him in the ribs, sending him toppling onto the concrete floor. Piers and Dudley crowd eagerly into the space Harry had previously occupied, staring in awe at the upright boa constrictor, excited breaths fogging up the glass of its enclosure._

 _And then, quite suddenly, there_ is _no enclosure. The glass that had separated them is inexplicably gone, leaving only empty space between the two boys and the monstrous reptile. Shouting in horror, Piers and Dudley fling themselves backwards, sprawling onto the cold hard floor. The snake spills out after them, its thick, muscular body sliding to the floor and slithering away with frightening speed and strength. The boa constrictor snaps at the two boys as it passes, an obvious warning to keep their distance. Piers sees the gleaming white edges of its nightmarish fangs._

 _Throughout the reptile house, visitors are screaming and shouting, and the hall echoes with the sound of running footsteps. Mrs. Dursley has reached them, and is kneeling next to Dudley, frantic. She is running her hands through Dudley's hair, holding him close, whispering hysterical, nonsense words of comfort. But Dudley is ignoring her outright, mouth slack and eyes wide, watching the snake make its determined way towards the reptile house exit._

 _Piers, too, watches the boa as it slides powerfully in Harry's direction. It doesn't snap at him as it does with all the other people. It doesn't hiss at him, or threaten him in any way. The snake simply continues on by, as if it isn't bothered by Harry at all. Piers glances up to see Harry's reaction, and it strikes him that Harry is clearly surprised - his lips are parted in a quiet gasp, his bright green eyes watching the snake incredulously. But Harry, Piers sees, is not afraid. He is not scared in the slightest. He only watches the snake move swiftly by, and as it passes him, Harry blinks in surprise. And then the corners of his lips curve ever so slightly, a small, secret smile._

 _Mrs. Dursley is crying hysterically, and Mr. Dursley is shouting at the keeper of the reptile house, who is rendered immobile with shock, and only repeats his murmured question -_ the glass, where did the glass go? _The zoo visitors are fleeing in terror, thundering footsteps echoing off the cave-like walls of the reptile house. But Harry Potter stays sprawled on the stone floor, one hand absent-mindedly cradling his side. He is smiling._

 **…**

Piers turns away from the window and looks at Harry, sitting quietly between him and Dudley. The boy is curled in on himself slightly, as if trying to make himself invisible. But Piers watches him steadily. After a moment, Harry notices and looks over, meeting Piers' eyes. Harry swallows, uneasy. Piers grins.

"Harry was talking to it, weren't you, Harry?" And as Mr. Dursley roars _'What?!'_ and nearly crashes the car for the second time that day, Harry Potter, who does not even flinch in the face of an escaped boa constrictor, looks frightened.


	3. PS SS: The Letters from No One

As owner of the Railview Hotel on the outskirts of Cokeworth, Mary Wright has seen many strange things. She has even become used to such strangeness on a daily basis. She doubts whether anything could surprise her.

And yet, as she ducks into the back room for a quick moment to file a few papers, she certainly doesn't expect the sight that greets her as she returns to the front desk. Where just moments before had been a mostly-bare desk with a few scattered papers and a scribbled note or two, there are letters. Or, more accurately, a _pile_ of letters, each one with the same, thick yellowish envelope.

Mary blinks at the pile. It doesn't go away. Curious, she moves several cautious steps nearer. Each envelope is written on with the same emerald green ink and elegant handwriting, oddly old-fashioned and yet neat - almost business-like. And, stranger still, all the letters she can read at a glance are addressed exactly the same:

 **Mr. H. Potter**

 **Room 17**

 **Railview Hotel**

 **Cokeworth**

 _A joke_ , she thinks. _This must be some sort of joke._ And yet, as she strides swiftly to the front doors and throws them wide, she recognizes that nobody she knows would spend such time and money on a gag. She leans out the doors, into the sidewalk, scanning all directions. A pigeon with grimy wings picks at remnants of discarded food on the street. A plastic bag skitters down the gutter in the wind. The morning sun reflects lazily off of parked cars. But there is no one in sight - not even the back of a mailman as he disappears around the corner. It unnerves Mary, and she shivers slightly as she pulls back inside and swings the doors shut behind her to the quiet protests of rusty hinges.

She returns to her desk slowly, part of her wondering if the letters will be gone. Had she simply imagined the whole thing? But as soon as she nears the desk, the top of the letter pile is visible over the scratched wooden counter, emerald ink glinting slightly in the dim overhead lights. Sighing, Mary plops into her seat at the desk. She picks up a letter, dismisses the temptation to open it, and then drops it in an empty cardboard box beneath her desk. She grabs that box, sets it in her lap, and then begins to weed through the mysterious letters, tossing them into the box as she goes.

 **Mr. H. Potter, Mr. H. Potter, Mr. H Potter**. _Thunk, thunk, thunk_ into the cardboard box. Mary glances at the clock on the wall in between letters, and notes that her guests would currently be at breakfast. She knows exactly what she's going to do after boxing up these letters.

Find Mr. H. Potter.

 **…**

Mary Wright had struck out on all counts so far, leaving only one table of customers left. If Mr. H. Potter was not at this table, he must not have come down to breakfast. Part of her wants to skip this table and head up to Room 17, because the heavy-set man with the distinctive look of the slightly unhinged doesn't seem very much like a Mr. H. Potter. But she supposes it's worth the try, and bustles over to the table of four disheveled travelers.

"'Scuse me," Mary interrupts, keeping her tone light and friendly. They all look up at her, with varying expressions of annoyance and curiosity - a husband and wife, and two very dissimilar boys of similar age. "But is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk," she explains. As she had at every other table, she holds the envelope out in front of her for her customers' consideration. And Mary Wright finds herself surprised yet again.

It is not the gruff-looking husband who reacts, but the skinny kid with the dark hair. His hand darts toward the proffered letter, but the husband knocks it away. Mary stares. The husband's jaw is set in a kind of fierce determination. His wife is watching him nervously. The other boy at the table, who is undeniably their son, is also watching for his father's reaction, albeit less nervously and more vacantly. But the dark-haired boy - the one who reached for the letter - is not watching the man at all. His vibrant green eyes are fixed on the letter in Mary's hand, boring into it as if staring hard enough would make its contents visible. He is leaning forward with tangible interest, arms on the tabletop, cartoonishly large sleeves overflowing onto his empty plate. There is a deep sort of _longing_ that exudes from him, and for a moment, Mary wants nothing more than to hand this strange kid his mysterious letter. But then the husband stands up, and the moment is gone.

"I'll take them," he says decisively, nodding at the letter in Mary's hand. She nods and turns away with him at her heels, headed for the front desk. She wants to look back at that kid - _he_ , Mary decides, looks like a Mr. H Potter - but she resists the urge and continues forward. The two of them exit the dining room and head straight for the front desk. Mary circles around behind it, grabs the box of letters, and passes it across the counter to the husband.

"Are you Mr. H. Potter?" she asks him curiously as he peers in the box with a deeply distrustful glare.

" _No_ ," he responds, a little too firmly. Then, seeming to suddenly realize that he is in public and in front of a stranger, he clears his throat and attempts a smile - it comes out like a horrifying grimace. "Potter is my nephew," he explains, his tone forcibly light. "My wife and I are his legal guardians." Mary pictures young Mr. H. Potter in his oversized clothes and crudely-taped glasses, and has serious doubts about this couple's so-called guardianship.

But there is nothing she can do, and so Mary watches as the husband takes the box in his large hands, holding it carefully as if it were a bomb rather than a stack of yellowed letters. He reaches the door to the dining room, nods at her stiffly, and then disappears through it. Mary doesn't see any of them again.

Later that day, as she cleans out Room 17, she notices that the trash bin has a particularly large amount of ash in it. And as she moves the bin out to empty it, she finds her cardboard box sitting there behind it.

It's empty.


End file.
